


love me like this

by VesperNexus



Category: The Spy Who Came in from the Cold - John Le Carré
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Corny, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, what is this even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 10:39:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17119802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: maybe it’s the damage they inflict that makes them gravitate towards each other.





	love me like this

**Author's Note:**

> dont know  
> more earl grey  
> did a thing

Since his childhood, the luxury of owning, possessing, having complete autonomy over his own body has been painfully elusive.

For years, his body, from the blunts of his nails to the soft white insides of his thighs, has been appropriated by men and women more powerful than he. Both with his consent and without. Sometimes for money, sometimes for food, sometimes for shelter, often in repayment, and  _always_ as a means of survival. Sex is a tool he wields with impressive, excruciatingly practised dexterity, and it is one he has sharpened on the whetstone of necessity. 

Fiedler could never treat sex as a means of deriving pleasure for himself. Only others. Only ever for others. 

And then came along Leamas, whose body too was manipulated for the pleasure of others, in a way that was both different and terrifyingly familiar.

And Leamas, with lingering touches and soft kisses, takes him apart for  _hours._ Gently, his mouth maps a topography of constellations down the stairway of Fiedler's spine, the tip of his nose brushing against the sprinkle of freckles by his right shoulder. Hands with which he has broken and fractured bones, with which he has held knives and pistols and a gallery of impossibly dangerous paraphernalia, cradle the jutting angles of Fiedler's hips without reddening his skin.

Leamas knows what Fiedler needs, when Fiedler doesn’t know he needs anything at all.

They don't sleep together often, and not with any sense of urgency. Sex has been a tremendously difficult path to climb for both of them.

The first time Leamas' kiss lingers, his lips slip to the corner of Fiedler's mouth and then lower to suckle a bruise on the delightful curve of his neck. Grazing his teeth along the melodically thrumming jugular, Leamas pulls leisurely from Fiedler's throat a hitched breath, so pleasurable it must be sin manifest.

The younger man's eyes flutter shut, brushing against Leamas' cheek so gently. Encouraged, Leamas allows his hands to roam the curves of Fiedler's body, twisting his fingers into the dip at the small of his back.

The touch - innocent enough, decent enough, is tethered to a road more suggestive than they have ever ventured. 

Too far.

Leamas closes his eyes too soon, because in a frighteningly intense moment the ball of Fiedler's hand strikes his left shoulder blade in a practised move designed to disarm, and knocks his shoulder out of alignment with his torso.

" _Fuck_!"

Later, Fiedler apologises profusely for dislocating Leamas' shoulder.

*

"How are you feeling?"

Fiedler's voice is paralysed with uncertainty, and his eyes focus into the space above Leamas' shoulder, avoiding his face completely. One step forward, one year back.

"'M fine, Jens." Leamas focuses too heavily on releasing the tension from his shoulder in a futile attempt to make the damage appear less serious. They both know far better, however, and the guilt keeping Fiedler pressed to the far end of the couch is not assuaged.

Leamas sits on the other end, body weighed and lethargic with painkillers. He is careful not to jostle the sling. 

"You should be in bed."

"I've been in bed for over a day. It's already quite excessive. I'm fine, really."

"Tea, then."

Fiedler makes to move, no doubt to reassert the distance between he and Leamas once again, but Leamas will not let him.

"Jens. Please."

A pause.

A terribly long, drawn out pause which pushes Fiedler's back into the couch and keeps his eyes a distance away. Whether it is shame or apology that draws his gaze so far, Leamas can only guess.

"This isn't your fault."

"I dislocated your shoulder, Alec. Whose fault is it?" He finally turns, and sadness turns his long lashes moist and draws the corners of his mouth downward. Leamas valiantly fights the urge to pull the younger man into his arms and just  _be._ He only just wins

"I went too far too quickly," he rebuts immediately, "I crossed a line."

"You touched my back, Alec. You have touched my back a thousand times prior."

"This is different."

Fiedler concedes. "It is. But I -" he takes a short, revitalising breath. The words are pulled almost involuntarily from between his teeth. "I encouraged you. I pulled you closer. I wanted it too."

Leamas inches across the couch gracelessly, close enough to put his hands by Fiedler's. The younger man doesn't move further away, and that is enough.

"Please don't step away from me Jens."  _We've gotten so far. We've gotten so, so goddamn far._ "We - we can't move backwards now. We have to be more careful, that's all." He articulates his plea as careful as he's able.

"What if it isn't your shoulder? Next time, Alec - what if it isn't your shoulder?"

Leamas knows exactly what the younger man is asking, with strained words and still hands. Fiedler is two decades his junior. He is a full head shorter than Leamas, and a lifetime of hunger has hollowed his cheeks and made his belly concave. 

But he remains a trained field operative, with the prowess and stamina of a feline. His fingers are strong and the muscles lining he curve of his back and his chest deform famine into strength. Coordinated by a blindingly quick mind, Fiedler knows precisely where to apply pressure and much to apply in order to cause the greatest devastation. Fiedler is by no means weak, and in spite of all his training and stiff powerful build, Leamas is unsure he can always overpower him.

Especially not with a dislocated shoulder.

"I trust you not to incapacitate me irreversibly," his words are punctuated by a laugh, and Fiedler finds the situation not at all humorous. 

"Promise me you will not allow me to, Alec."

"What?"

Fiedler leans backwards, turning his body to face Leamas completely. He presses his palm urgently against the back of Leamas' calloused hand. "If I - if I'm threatening or aggressive toward you-"  _aggressive - as if you could be aggressive, Jens -_ "you will stop me. You will hurt me if necessary-"

"I'm  _not_ hurting you."

Leamas' voice is wrought with unparalleled finality.

"...Alec-"

"I'll dispatch you Jens, but I won't lay a hand on you." That doesn't seem to satisfy the anxiety colouring Fiedler's eyes. 

"You failed to  _dispatch_ me when I dislocated your shoulder."

"An oversight on my part," he replies drily. Leamas does not tell Fiedler that the idea of  _dispatching_ him makes him queasy to the point of becoming physically sick. It does terrible things to his stomach and it takes great effort to push the bile back down his throat.  _You can break all my bones Jens, and I wouldn't lay a hand on you._

He doesn't say anything, of course.

"I'll be more careful, Love. I promise, okay?"

Leamas stares at him hard, unrelenting, unblinking. He turns his hand in Fiedler's grasp and weaves their fingers together in a familiar hold. 

"Okay." Fiedler gives in, thankfully. Leamas knows he isn't completely convinced, because Leamas can spin a thousand fantasies into believable recounts in only a moment, but this is  _Jens._ He's always had trouble lying to Jens, even before he fell so helplessly in love with him. "Okay."

Maybe Fiedler agrees because he knows Leamas is lying, intentionally misdirecting him, and the alternative is too terrible to consider.

In return, Leamas does not ask, or guess, or investigate, what treacherous memory he accidentally summoned from Fiedler's mind with his touch. One of the most important steps involved in moving forward, he has quietly learned, is letting Fiedler compartmentalise all of these terrible things and deal with them on his own terms. He will speak to Leamas, that much is a certainty, but he will do it once he has buried himself in his books and his divorce applications and his court appearances for a little while.

But he will speak to him, in time. And then they will take another slow step forward.

They try to, and they stumble, predictably. Because three months after _The Incident,_ it happens again.

Except this time, it’s the other way around.

 _Fuck,_ Leamas thinks afterwards, torn between laughing madly and sobbing into Fiedler’s hair, _we are so bloody dysfunctional. Holy fuck._

It’s two thirty AM. Thick drapes cut the silver moonlight into shards, spilling haphazardly onto the floorboards. Sleep tugs the loose edges of Fiedler’s consciousness, beckoning him back.

A warm palm presses against the ridges of his spine, strong fingers digging gently into his nape.

“Mmm,” he smiles lazily into the pillow, “’t tickles ‘lec…”

The touch becomes more insistent, fingernails scraping along the line of Fiedler’s jaw and down to the soft, vulnerable underside of his neck.

“Alec?”

The pressure increases only noticeably, and when the older man doesn’t reply, Fiedler becomes instantly conscious of the strong fingers curling around his windpipe.

He’s roused quickly, mind wide-awake. But his body catches up too slowly, and Leamas’ hands have become a steel shackle around his throat.

“Hh-” the older man straddles him, grip bruising and unyielding, suffocating the panicked cry in his oesophagus and yanking without apology the breath from deep in his lungs. Leamas’ eyes are open, barely, unseeing in the dark. He’s asleep.

He’s asleep.

Fiedler’s fingers tug at his wrists, his legs kicking out weakly. Panic swallows up his reason as quickly as Leamas’ hands swallow up his voice, and Fiedler finds himself twitching, writhing, thrashing helplessly. A vignette frame splatters the edges of his vision.

_Alec-Alec-Alec-_

He yells with a voice that escapes him, and in his frenzy cannot hear wither any sound escapes his lips. Fiedler’s chest constricts tightly, head lolling back against his pillow, too heavy for him to hold up. Tears moisten his lashes and spill into his open mouth, roused by a throttling fear.

_He will never forgive himself._

_Alec…_

“ _Jens-_ oh _Scheiße,_ Christ-”

Leamas jerks with an electric surge, the clasp unlocked from Fiedler’s neck, and he can _breathe._

*

Leamas leaves.

For two days, two tremendously long and trying days, Fiedler lies fitfully awake in an cold, empty bed.

It’s four AM, and today will not be any easier.

His toes brush against the cool floorboards. He reaches for the lamp, and a warm amber glow fills the crannies and paints the ugly wallpaper.

Even in this treacherously dim lighting, the pastiche of purple and yellow blotting the pale lines of his neck look grotesque. Fiedler sighs quietly, the little exhale of breath sending needle spikes of pain through his throat. He rests his forehead on the mirror and closes his eyes.

Worry ate away at his sleep, his appetite, his productivity. Fiedler refuses to linger on how many bottles of Steinhager Leamas is washing down on an empty stomach.

_Click._

Suddenly alert, he stumbles back from the mirror. The front door. Someone is unlocking the front door.

_Alec._

He draws a night gown from the hook behind the bedroom door and cocoons his body tightly, pulling the collar high about his neck. Slipping quickly through the corridors, he turns on all the lights.

“Alec,” Fiedler’s voice croaks, dry, unused. From where he stands, Leamas grimaces.

“Hi.”

A terrible cliché Americanism dances on the tip of his tongue, _And what sort of time do you call this?_ Fiedler swallows it back down, and wraps his arms tightly around his middle.

The darkness around Leamas’ eyes attests to the sleepless nights spent fighting valiantly not to spill over a bar stool, and there’s a new shiny bruise splashed along his hairline.

Fiedler walks over slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild deer. He’s too afraid Leamas will spot the way his fingerprints spill across Fiedler’s neck in too many colours, and bolt. Fiedler walks over carefully, and raises his fingers to Leamas’ bruise. His eyes are dark and apologetic.

Leamas says nothing when the younger man pushes his head to rest on his shoulder, folding their bodies together. Fiedler’s cheek presses against the rough wool of Leamas’ coat, and catches the tear the spills from the corner of his eye.

They don’t say anything. Leamas gently wraps his arms around Fiedler as if he is made of glass. It’s cautious in a fearful way, and Fiedler hates it, _hates_ that Leamas sees him as breakable, but he lets Leamas hold him and cry into his hair anyway.

“You’re okay.” Leamas reassures himself.

“I am okay,” Fiedler concludes.

In the end, they’re curled up in the corner of the living room like freshly blown autumn leaves. Leamas murmurs, “We get one each, eh?”

It isn’t funny, not really, but Fiedler finds himself laughing breathlessly, until his eyes are moist from the needles in his throat.

In an incredibly unhealthy, fucked-up way, Leamas calls them even.

They finally talk about it properly, a long while later as they’re sat eating lamb and vegetables roasted too long in the oven. Fiedler peers at him over the rim of his glass and laughs without restraint.

“I dislocated your shoulder. You attempted to dislocate my _neck._ I would not call us _even_ Alec.”

Leamas huffs in affront, draining his Merlot. I wasn’t trying to _dislocate_ anything. Besides, you were successful. I only attempted asphyxiation.”

Fiedler rolls his eyes. “You need a psychologist. Besides, you do not cook me nearly enough roast dinners to justify a successful asphyxiation.”

“You love me.”

Fiedler puts his fork down, acutely aligned with the rest of his cutlery. “God help me.”

“Thought you didn’t believe in God.”

“I do not.” He stands, smiling devilishly. “Considering our situation, _Liebling,_ I find reverting to fiction is appropriate on occasion.” Collecting the plates, “What is this if not a fairy tale after all, hmm?”

Leamas chokes out an unattractive laugh, but Fiedler’s smile is warm and blinding and he kisses the crown of Leamas’ head and it’s _perfect._

They will clear the plates and lie beside one another on the bed, both too damaged to do more than kiss. Leamas will be up by six in the morning doing crunches on the dining table while eggs fry in the pan and Fiedler wonders in half-asleep to yell at him to act _civilised_ , even though he cannot manage more than two words before his first cup of coffee.

It’s just perfect, isn’t it?


End file.
